Date: Fri, 11 Dec 1998 12:02:17 -0800
Reply-To: kevinm@RED.PRIMEXTECH.COM
Sender: Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@vanagon.com>
From: Kevin Mikkelson <kevinm@RED.PRIMEXTECH.COM>
Subject: Friday - Geo Metro Race
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
A co-worker sent this to me yesterday, I though it was funny until I read
the last line. I challenged him to a race after work, he and his wife's
Metro never showed. I guess racing a Vanagon will make some 3-cylinder car
owners apprehensive.
>>> >>> I borrowed my wife's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, 3
>>> >>> cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims. It's stock,
>>> >>> alright, nothing done to it, but it pushes the barely 2000
>>> >>> pounds of Metro around with AUTHORITY. I'm always catching
>>> >>> mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise...
>>> >>>
>>> >>> I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte
>>> >>> cappuccino blast ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when
>>> >>> I stopped at a streetlight. As the Metro throbbed its throaty idle
>>> >>> around me, I sipped my bold beverage and wiped the white froth my
>>> >>> stiff upper lip. I was minding my own business, but then I heard a
>>> >>> rev from the next lane.
>>> >>>
>>> >>> I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the
>>> >>> competition. Ford Festiva -- a late model, could be trouble. Low
>>> >>> profile tires, curb feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot
>>> >>> rod, for sure.
>>> >>>
>>> >>> The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the
>>> >>> driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I tugged on my
>>> >>> driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be
>>> >>> fast, and I am *damn* cool, hence...), the night was split with the
>>> >>> sound of seven screaming cylinders...
>>> >>>
>>> >>> Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, my three
>>> >>> pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into
>>> >>> my seat, as smoke pouring from my front right tire... my unlimited
>>> >>> slip differential was letting me down! I saw in the corner of my
>>> >>> eyes, a yellow snout gaining, and I heard the roar of his four
>>> >>> cylinders. He slung by me, right front wheel juddering against the
>>> >>> pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his .7 extra liters of motor
>>> >>> stretched its legs. I kept my foot gamely in it, though, waiting for
>>> >>> the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in the one-gauge (no
>>> >>> tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a glimpse of chrome
>>> >>> under his bumper, and knew the ugly truth...
>>> >>>
>>> >>> He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust...
>>> >>> maybe even cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us
>>> >>> on the crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction...
>>> >>>
>>> >>> Yet still I persisted, with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
>>> >>> high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of
>>> >>> seconds had passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side
>>> >>> of the intersection, and I heard the note of his engine change as he
>>> >>> made his shift to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror
fade
>>> >>> as he missed the shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch
>>> >>> gently in to keep from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and
>>> >>> pulling me ahead, now trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke. Not
>>> >>> ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in it, revving, and I
heard one
>>> >>> wheel *almost* chirp as he finally found second and dropped the
>>> >>> clutch. We careened over the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles
>>> >>> per hour. A bicyclist passed us, but intent on the race as we were,
>>> >>> neither of us batted an eye.
>>> >>>
>>> >>> He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, we made the
>>> >>> shift to third, the scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within
>>> >>> a five foot circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour,
>>> >>> then eased in front of me, taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was
>>> >>> staring up the dual 6" chrome tips of his exhaust, snarling, my
>>> >>> cappuccino forgotten, as he lifted a little to take the next corner.
>>> >>>
>>> >>> I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty
>>> >>> steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot
>>> >>> buried in carpet. Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll
>>> >>> slowly to the left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual
>>> >>> sweeping turn. I felt the Geo ease onto its suspension stops, and
>>> >>> felt the right rear wheel slowly leave the ground - no matter,
though,
>>> >>> because my drive wheels, up front, were pulling me through the
>>> >>> corner, and around the Festiva ...
>>> >>>
>>> >>> The Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my wife's car eased past
>>> >>> him on the outside, my P165/54R13's screaming in protest, as we
>>> >>> raced to the next light. We coasted down, neck-and neck, to the
>>> >>> red light. I tightened my driving gloves, ready for another round,
>>> >>> when this WIMP in the next car meekly flipped his turn signal and
>>> >>> made a right. Chevy (Suzuki) superiority reigns!!!
>>> >>>
>>> >>> I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility,
>>> >>> looking for other unwitting targets.... Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even
>>> >>> a Volkswagon Van!
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